SEVEN WAKINGS
by SK McCauley
Summary: After Emma James— a widowed mother and child protection agent— is murdered to cover up a kidnapping ring, she reincarnates to solve the crimes. With SEVEN WAKINGS, Emma finds herself as: a homeless African American man, a sex-crazed lady of means, a morbidly obese Caucasian woman, a dashing lawyer with a hidden agenda, an innocent girl in shackles, a ruthless double-life cop...
1. Chapter 1

McCauley/Susan/SEVEN WAKINGS

Paranormal/Commercial Fiction

SEVEN WAKINGS

by S.K. McCauley

Prologue _- The Gift_

As a kid, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: a shape shifter. I'd use my super powers to spy on people; watch how they lived. If a grown up was mean, I'd become a giant, remove their roof with my big, blue hands and...

"Wait, Emma, who decides who the bad guys are?" my father asked in the dim light of our small porch, arranging his hand of cards.

"Ah do," I said, in the Southern accent I'd adopted to sound more like my mother.

Dad chuckled and moved his bench back from the picnic table.

"No… really, I can hear the difference." I gulped chocolate milk.

"Bad people _sound_ different?" He laid down a run of hearts— 2, 3, 4.

"Sure. It's like when you're flipping channels and you hit one with nothing on."

"Like static," he said, matter-of-fact.

"Bad people move different too, real slow, like they're under water."

Dad went quiet. I wouldn't know until later that Mother's side of the family came with an assortment of "Gifts," which revealed themselves in a child's ninth year. I had turned nine that March.

"Then what happens… in your fantasy, I mean?" He picked up replacement cards.

"The bad guys get sucked out of the house and the whole neighborhood comes out to watch them float past the moon. Sometimes I'll do a bunch of houses at once. When all the people float up, it's like watching rain in reverse." I laid down three kings.

He pushed his dinner plate aside. "That's a lot of bad guys."

"Yep. Then they get sucked into a black hole and disappear forever."

My father, a police chief, taught me a lot of things, but astronomy was my favorite. I thought outer space was a more humane dumping ground than the hell they preached about in my mother's church.

I used to go with her— the year she tried being Baptist— but all I liked was the pie they served in the church basement after the preacher talked me to sleep. Maybe if I'd paid more attention, Mother wouldn't have left for good to try and "find herself."

By the time I received my Gift, we hadn't seen her in years. That was just fine by me (she could be all kinds of crazy), but I missed her when it came time to getting tucked in. I liked the way she used to sing me to sleep. Her voice was taffy— sweet and rich.

After my mom left, Lynette started coming over. She was one of the McCollum clan that lived next door.

To me, they were one Irish lump, too big for individual recognition. Each one of the kids' names started with an "L": Liam, Lochlan, Leith, Lee, and Luxovious were the five boys. Lyonesse, Lesley, Lynette, and baby Lavena, were the girls. They all called me _Mowgli_— from _The Jungle Book_— 'cause I dressed like a boy, had toasty-tan skin, and wore my hair moppy-brown.

I never could tell one red-haired McCollum from another, until Lynette separated from the pack. Four years older than me, she'd started getting boobs and said she didn't like being around all those boys. Really, I think she felt bad about my mom leaving. She'd get ready at our house in the morning: put her hair in rollers, sit on the side of the tub, and ask me about my innermost thoughts.

I liked how she took an interest, made me feel special. Later, I even told her about my Gift.

Back then, our post-war house was painted brick-red with clean, white trim and sat on the outskirts of Baltimore. Grass pushed green veins of color down cracked sidewalks that passed a hundred houses, on countless blocks, with the same modest floor plan. But Dad made ours different— he put a porch on the front and planted lots of flowers. He liked to watch people walk by, play cards in the rain, and tell stories about our neighbors.

The way Dad described them: One woman ran the five-and-dime and had lost her husband to a heart attack. The man up the street was a mechanic at the gas station in town who took care of his ailing mother. Another owned a hardware store and was a devoted family man.

I liked the way Dad saw people; they were all decent and hard working in his eyes. But I knew better. The woman stole money from the till, the man took cans of gasoline to set his neighbor's lawn on fire, and Mr. Carl— the hardware store owner— beat his kids senseless. Having "the Gift" made the bad stuff people did as clear as cells under a microscope. Most things didn't bother me much… until it came to hurting kids.

When my mind saw how Mr. Carl treated his own, I arranged a "Come to Jesus." Standing on his concrete stoop, I told him I would kill him if he kept it up.

Mr. Carl snorted and told me he was "real scared." But when I described the exact details of how he whipped his kids like they were slow horses, he got real quiet. Then I started to talk like I was _po_ssessed— using Bible words and calling on Lucifer to take his "Evil spirit to the fiery gates of Hell."

I even rolled my eyes back in my head for effect and hissed like I'd swallowed a snake. I told him he had two choices: stop beating his kids, or sleep with one eye open.

He took his fist-fighting to the bar.

Some things never change, like Lynette and me. She'd grow up and listen for a living. I'd keep protecting kids.

Chapter One- _The Black Box_

It's no surprise that Lynette is here today— on the worst of all days— to comfort me. She was also there after my husband died seven years ago; one minute Cal and I were packing for a romantic weekend, and the next he collapsed on the bathroom floor. Aneurism, they said. Just like that, I was a single mother of two young children picking out burial clothes for my high school sweetheart. I bawled for months. At night, after the kids went to bed, I'd lock myself in the bathroom and cry until I fell asleep on ceramic. Sometimes I'd curl into the tub with a blanket and pretend Cal was holding me, calling me Doll, only to find myself waking on cold porcelain. On the worst of nights, Lynette found me in my husband's closet, weeping amongst his shoes, his favorite Oriole shirt wadded for a pillow.

With tireless counsel she brought me back to the land of the living, promising that I would love again. I had to love again; my husband would want that for me.

Now, Lynette and I stand before a commemorative wall at my father's cremation service in a small V.A. building. He was proud of being a veteran and wanted to be remembered here. A banner hangs above the entrance to his memorial service, reading: Jack Stewart— Father, Friend, Force. Black-and-white pictures from his youth in Williamsburg, his days in the army, the years he spent with Mother, plus decades of color photos with friends, officers, and his life with me, are pinned to corkboard, alive with years well-lived.

A black box— the size of a half-gallon of ice cream— sits on a small table, holding all that remains of my father.

Lynette stands next to me, pointing out smiles and laughter captured for all eternity.

"Look at how handsome he was in uniform," she says, leaning in. Strawberry hair falls in front of her shoulder.

"Like a young Gregory Peck," I add.

She moves down the photo line. "He and your mother made a handsome couple." Her voice is August.

A huff escapes from my core. "I guess this makes me a widow and an orphan." I flash back to a newspaper article Dad brought home when I was thirteen: Coastline Crash Claims Three. It was a California newspaper, and one of the women in the car was my mom.

I touch a picture of my dad and Cal together in their uniforms. It was taken the day Cal became a police officer.

Lynette rubs my back, brushes dark hair from my face. "You still have your kids… and us."

As if on cue, the doors to the V.A. fly open and all eight of her siblings, their wives, husbands, and kids burst in. The McCollum's have come to pay their respects. They are an undulating sea of ivory skin and red hair.

"It looks like the church just caught fire," I whisper to her.

Lynette looks at me over her glasses, raises a red eyebrow.

Somber notes drift into the hall from a piano placed next to a podium at the front of a multi-purpose room.

"We should go in. Everyone is waiting on you." Lynette loops her arm into mine and we walk through the double doors together.

Countless rows of people have come to mourn the loss. Men from the Baltimore Police Department— one of several government agencies that I work with for Child Protective Services (CPS)— are dressed in uniform, and lined up shoulder-to-shoulder along the front wall. Friends from the neighborhood, other people from the station, the one army buddy who still lives nearby, and others fill the seats to overflowing, then stand where space allows.

It seems fitting that Dad's heart gave out slowly, having used it so well.

None of us know it now, but in a few days, we will all return to another gathering room to mourn. Some people will stand at attention, others will sit mute in disbelief, and I will be the one in the black box… the size of a half-gallon of ice cream.

Lynette and I walk to the front and take seats between my kids and her family. My daughter Kate, sixteen now, squeezes my hand when I sit down. Mac, my thirteen-year-old, forces a tight smile. It strikes me that he looks younger than his age; like some of the runaways I've been looking into. I can't imagine him out there all alone.

My mind checks out during the rest of the service. I remember standing up to "say a few words," but I don't know what they were— only that they lacked the ability to capture the depth of my father's character, and my love for him. I wish I could spare my children another loss— spare them all suffering— but life doesn't seem to work that way, despite my greatest efforts.

After everyone has headed to a social gathering in honor of my father, I find my kids sitting at the piano. Kate's playing Christmas songs, odd considering the month— September.

Mac watches her hands and sings every word. He was born with an eidetic memory— seems to feel the world on a higher vibration than the rest of us.

"What's going on?" I sit on the small piano bench with them.

"Grandpa thought the service was depressing," Kate says. Her features are a carbon copy of mine, only she's a green-eyed redhead. Cal used to say that Lynette and I were so close our eggs got scrambled.

"He wanted us to liven it up." Mac gets up, does a spin. His messy blond hair— cut long, surfer style— dances with the light. He looks like a bleached version of us, sometimes gets mistaken for a girl.

"Are you saying Grandpa Jack is here?" I tuck Kate's hair behind her ear.

"Can't you sense him?" she asks. I wonder if the pain is too big for her, or if Dad is really present.

I remember when Kate received "The Gift." It was May of her ninth year— her birthday month, just after Cal died. Late on a Sunday morning, she walked into the kitchen in a pink Ariel nightshirt, her hair a cascade of strawberry curls. Mac— at six— was playing chess on the computer.

Making pancakes, I felt the energy change in the room. I turned, spatula in hand, and saw my daughter. Somehow I knew she wasn't just nine anymore. The Gift, or the curse as some see it, are twin images of one another. It's all in how the receiver bears the weight.

Kate said when she woke up, her dad spoke to her in a language she couldn't understand. I knew instantly what she'd inherited: hearing souls who'd crossed over. She could speak to the dead. I wept with unexpected force— like someone took hold of my throat— fearing she would go crazy and snap off from "real" people, as my mother had. A tear dropped on the skillet and a minute plume of smoke faded into nothing.

But Kate was an older soul than my mother. She could handle it. As we sat on the floor, I told them about our heritage in terms they could understand: "You know how some animals can hear or sense things that humans can't? That's kind of how the women in our family are. Sometimes we know things before they happen, the way animals can sense a storm or danger. Or sometimes we can see pictures in our minds of something that's _going_ to happen. And Kate's gift is extra special because she can hear people that don't live on earth anymore." I took their hands into mine. "But our gifts are like super-secrets. Don't tell anybody unless you really, really trust them… as much as you trust Lynette, or me, or each other."

I suggested that Kate ask her dad to speak to her in English. On that day, it seemed that Kate became spirit. Mac was the brain.

Back in the small V.A. I close my eyes and try to sense my father. Nothing comes. That's the thing about _my_ gift, I don't control it. Scenes present themselves like a silent-movie clip. I can see what has— or will— happen, but not in its entirety. Or I may experience an intuitive "knowing" that something is about to happen— good and bad. And _some_ "bad" people still warp time, slow it down and move like they're under water. Dead people, however, are not my forte.

"Our gifts are different, Sweetie. I _wish _I could sense what you do." Pausing, I realize the question I can ask to validate my father's presence. "Ask Grandpa about his favorite Christmas song."

Kate and Mac confer. "He likes the song about the ostracized Arctic deer who becomes the hero because of his unique gift." Mac's messing with me.

I laugh. "He wants us to sing Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer." That's the right answer. "How does he seem?" I ask Kate, still not convinced Dad is here.

"Happy." She runs lovely fingers over piano keys. "Younger than I ever knew him."

Not wanting to push, I suggest we sing the chosen song, and every other Christmas tune we can remember, until the janitor asks to sweep up the room.

Before we leave he says, "You know what you guys look like together?"

I think he going to say some like: a nice little family.

Instead he responds, "Neopolitan ice cream."

Proud of her new license, Kate drives us back to Glen Burnie— a neighborhood in Baltimore— for my father's social gathering.

I hold the "Oh Shit!" handle and give too many driving tips. Foliage whips past at unnatural speed, mailboxes come within inches of my side, the middle line is straddled.

"Am I the only person braced for impact?" Mac quips.

Kate adjusts the mirror. "Don't distract me. You'll just make it worse." She grips the steering wheel at 9 and 3— thumbs straight up, leans forward.

I send a prayer to the driving Gods; hoping for safe passage.

The gathering is held at Dad's house, where people feel most comfortable. The blueprint of our neighborhood remains unchanged: small houses, cracked concrete, and over run chain-link fences. But an explosion of rose verbena, yellow buckeye, and Appalachian bugbane distinguishes Dad's house from a landscape of beige and grey. His yard is nirvana in the middle of the hood. We park in the driveway and open doors to a breath of border phlox, which glows white at dusk, creating an eerie air.

Inside, Lynette is standing in as hostess. Mourners file in and load their plates with the southern fare I cooked: country ham, red-eyed potatoes with gravy, collard greens, cornbread with honey, and rice pudding, and tea cakes for dessert. That's the first meal I prepared. I also made an alternate supper: Maryland blue crabs, clams, mussels, jambalaya, biscuits, cabbage with vinegar, dirty rice, and lemon bars, and cheesecake for dessert. I like to cook, especially when I can't sleep… which is often.

I find a chair in the corner by the front window— my father's seat— and start to drink my supper: a double Manhattan on the rocks. Chief Lewis, the current head of the Baltimore Police Station, comes over to offer his condolences. I stand to meet him and realize my eyes are level with his chest. The thought of him having nipples nearly breaks the monotony of sorrow.

"Your father will never be forgotten." He puts his enormous hand on my shoulder. Something changes in his eyes. Because I've known him for so long, I can tell that he's shifting into business mode. "I hear that CPS has assigned you to the runaway cases."

He's referring to a increase in the number of kids reported as runaways in Baltimore recently. I shouldn't be surprised that he's all business, all the time, but still his question smacks with insensitivity. "I asked for this assignment. Something feels off about it." I look around the room for my kids; they're filling glasses with spiked punch and lemonade. "When's your next briefing?"

"Tomorrow morning. But you should take some time to be with your family. Just come in when you're ready. Maybe next week." He gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

"I'd rather stay busy. Work is easier than life these days." I knock back my drink; feel the whiskey burn my throat, heat my chest. I like the feeling too much lately. "Besides, I couldn't sit around knowing that those kids might be on the street, or worse."

He nods. "Fine, but stick to facts when you're with my officers. I don't want them wasting any time on one of your 'gut feelings'."

"Yes, Sir." I raise my glass to him as he walks away.

Mike Dupree— a recently reassigned officer— and Kim, the station's new secretary, speak in low tones near me. I think they're screwing. Normally I wouldn't care, but something about Mike sets off alarms. Maybe it's because he looks like a cage fighter— lean and mean. His shaved head doesn't serve to soften his impact.

Mike catches me eyeballing him and saunters over. He shakes my hand. "Hey… I'm sorry to hear about your fatha'. I heard he was a good man." His Jersey accent is so extreme that I find myself watching his mouth to follow along.

His very presence affects my cells; it's _loathe_ at first sight. "You don't know anything about my father."

He reacts like I sucker-punched him. "Jesus. I'm just tryin' to make polite conversation."

I huff. "Don't strain yourself." The whiskey has definitely kicked in.

He looks at me sideways. "Are you mistakin' me for an ex-boyfriend or somethin'?"

I almost smile. At least he knows how to hang tough. "Sorry. I'm just a little wrecked right now. Maybe I'm seeing you wrong."

He leans in and whispers. "My mother used to say I was an angel sent from heaven."

I wasn't expecting him to be charming. "You shouldn't get too close. Your lady-friend might think you're sweet on me."

He glances at my figure. "Nah. You ain't my type."

I look over at Kim, who's fondling the fringe of her sweater the way a baby does when they suckle. "Why… aren't you attracted to women with a spine?"

"It's not that." He leans in close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath mingle with my hair. "I just got a taste for the Chinks."

His charm bubble just popped. "I don't think Kim is Chinese, Mike."

He looks at her and shrugs. "Them Asians all look the same to me. I got what you might call 'yellow fever'." Mike winks, then clenches the muscles of his chiseled jaw and looks around. He lowers his voice. "Hey… I overheard you talkin' to the Chief about the runaways. What's the deal?"

"There's no _deal_. Something just seems off about it. I can feel it in my gut."

He furrows his brow. "What do you mean, like that 'lady intuition' thing?"

I shake my empty glass. "Something like that… only stronger."

"Oh yeah…" He points his finger at me. "You're into all that 'woo-woo' stuff."

I laugh. "Woo-woo?" Seems funny to hear such a macho guy use such a flowery term.

"You know," he shakes his hands by his head, "that psychic bullshit stuff." A tattoo peeks out from the bottom of his buttoned sleeve.

"Ah… another skeptic. Why should you believe in something that's existed throughout history?" Most of my ice is melted. I drink the water tinged with whiskey, and start to walk away.

Apparently Mike's not done with the conversation. He stops me by the wrist. "You should get your facts straight. Psychics have only been around since the 1800's. You're thinkin' of prophets. Now _they_ knew what they were talkin' about."

His intellect surprises me. I had him pegged as a guy who only reads comic books. "I'll bite. How were prophets better than psychics?"

"Three reasons." Mike puts up a finger with each point. "God spoke to them directly, they were 100% accurate with their predictions, and their prophecies were usually about major societal change. Not personal forecasts. And frankly… most prophets were men."

I can't put my finger on Mike. It's like he's two different people: charming/well-read vs. angry/narrow-minded. "So my intuition is bullshit?"

"Claiming to be psychic is like saying you're the descendant of a prophet and a retard." He laughs at himself.

I guess he skipped all the PC classes. "Did you really just call me partially retarded?" I need a drink.

He shrugs. "Maybe not retarded. Just a little crazy." He sucks his incisor; seems to be ramping up for a doozie of a comment. "Wait… wasn't your mom crazy too?" He laughs. "I guess it _is_ inherited."

I don't question why he knows my personal history; I'm blinded by rage.

Every cell in my body roars up. It's like his comment pulled the ring off of a grenade in my mind. Fury explodes. I lunge at him before I can stop myself, have him backed against the wall. "You ever talk about my mother again… I'll kill you in your sleep."

Mike shoves me off, looks me straight in the eye. "They put _you_ in charge of kids? You're just as mental as every other CPS."

I get in his face. "You wanna see crazy? I'll show you all kinds of crazy."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." The Chief separates us. "Settle down. _Both_ of you."

Mike straightens his shirt and glares at me. "You're way outta line." He turns to Kim. "Come on. Let's get outta here. I can tell we're not welcome."

Maybe Mike was right about my gift. A prophet would have known that he's playing two sides in the runaway game: one as a dedicated cop, and another he doesn't want me— or anyone in the police department— to know about.

I reach for my empty glass. "Kim's welcome anytime."

The Chief turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel like a kid who's been pulled aside by the coach. Apparently I need a talking-to.

He looks down at me. The only thing that softens his appearance are freckles atop cream-in-your-coffee skin. "I know Mike is a little rough around the edges, but he's been through a lot in his life. We owe it to him to… "

"I don't owe him anything."

The Chief puts his hands in his pockets. "Then play nice for me. His father was a comrade of mine, back in-the-day."

I'd forgotten that the Chief started out as an officer in Jersey. My father's advice comes to mind: you mess with one police officer, and you mess with them all. "Fine. But it isn't going to be easy."

He pats my shoulder. "If you need a couple of days, I'll make a call to CPS…"

I shrug. "I'll think about it."

As they leave, I head to the kitchen, don't care that everyone is staring at me… except for the kids. They've never seen me this way. _I've_ never seen me this way.

Lynette meets me at the counter. "You okay?"

I fill my glass with ice. "He had the nerve to call me crazy on a day like this. What kind of guy does that?"

"Clearly he's an ass." Lynette pats my hand.

"Is that your professional diagnosis?" I pour whiskey over the ice, watch it pool at the bottom of the glass until it reaches two fingers. Then I pour a little more.

"My professional diagnosis would probably be more along the lines of: sociopathic tendencies and blatant misogyny." She slices a thin piece of orange for my glass, spears it— and a maraschino cherry— with a sword-shaped toothpick.

"I prefer your first diagnoses, makes him easier to despise."

After mixing my drink, I settle back into Dad's chair and try eavesdropping on the crowd.

I hear a large woman speaking to her friend, neither of whom I know. She says, "It really isn't a funeral without a body, now is it?" After both women laugh sufficiently she follows with, "But, my Lord, these lemon bars are delicious."

Sound drifts in and out, like I'm drowning in an ocean of cotton. I'm pulled to the surface when an older woman touches my arm. "I tended to your father in the service… after the plane crash. He was such a gracious man. He'll be sorely missed."

I stand to thank her, hold both of her hands. But that will be the last time I interact with anyone until the crowd clears.

By 8:30 only Lynette, her husband Lou, and my kids are still at my father's house.

They're all cleaning.

I walk toward the kitchen and sit on a bar stool at the counter. Mac slides closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. He senses when I'm far away and brings me back to earth with a touch. I know the affection will cease when his first chin hair sprouts, so I soak up every minute.

"Looks like I have some catching up to do." Lynette nods toward my empty glass.

"That was my third…" I shake the ice. "…and I'm not nearly numb enough."

"We'll have to work on that." She calls to Lou. "Honey…will you take the kids tonight? Em and I have some mourning to do."

He walks over to us and gives me a quick kiss on the forehead. I've considered Lou the closest of family, since he married Lynette eighteen years ago. Because they couldn't have kids of their own, they consider mine, theirs. Now, without Dad, they're the only people I trust completely with my children.

"How are you holding up, kid?" He rubs my back, tugs loose his grey tie.

"I've been better." I lick the inside of my glass, looking for a stray drop of alcohol.

"Whatever you need, we're here for you— day or night." He kisses Lynette on the cheek, grabs his keys, and motions to the kids. "We've been kicked out. These lovely ladies need to drown their sorrows."

Kate gives me a big hug, tells me that she loves me, and she'll see me in the morning. I whisper to her, "I love you more than you could ever possibly know"— my usual farewell. She gives me a Bonne Bell kiss on the cheek and gathers her things.

"Mexican food tomorrow night?" Mac slips into Nikes.

"Ole!" I snap my fingers like a salsa dancer.

He laughs just enough.

I give him a hug and say the same goodbye as I did to Kate "…more than you could ever possibly know."

Lou and the kids will probably play board games— which Mac will win— until they beg Lou to sing them to sleep. His voice, trained operatically, resonates on a level that makes people weep.

Later, Lou will fall asleep on the couch after hearing the puppy snores of my children in their twin beds. They share an upstairs room across the short hall from mine. Lou is as fierce a protector as me— a trait that continues to win me over.

Once they're gone, I feel like Atlas after setting down the world. With children comes the great burden of pretending that everything's okay… when most days, it's not. I wonder for a second if I could ever leave my children, as my mother did. My answer is immediate. No. Not under any circumstances.

As if Lynette hears my internal banter, she says, "Good parents don't have the luxury of going insane. You'll get through this, Em. You have to."

"Yeah… with a little help from my friend." I shake my empty glass and fantasize about downing a bottle of sleeping pills with it. If it weren't for the kids, I'd consider it. Sometimes just being alive feels like an accomplishment.

I drift off to a memory of my father tucking me in: "Oh to sleep, perchance to dream," he said every night, as he pulled the blankets up under my would kiss the tip of my nose, and just before shutting the door, tug on my toes and say, "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Make me one too." Lynette prepares an appetizer tray for us, and heads to the porch while I get our drinks.

Alone in the kitchen, I'm struck by the silence. It occurs to me that I will never hear my father's voice again. I look around. Nothing's been updated since the 70's: brown, white and gold linoleum, dark wood cabinets, and a laminate countertop— that's supposed to resemble mauve marble, but looks more like what's under our skin— beg to be updated, but I wouldn't change a thing. I pull my father's ashes to my waist like a clutch purse, pick up our drinks, and head for the porch.

"I'm going to look inside." I tip my head toward the box.

"I don't think that's a very good idea." Lynette takes her drink.

"Why not? Aren't I aiming for 'closure,' Doctor?" I sit in one of the two rocking chairs and set my father and my drink on the table between us.

"Closure is down the road a bit. Right now you should be eating, and I should be drinking." She picks up her cocktail.

I remove the lid anyway and open the plastic bag inside. "He looks like sand."

"Ashes to ashes." She touches my wrist. "It's too soon."

I run fingertips through his remains. He feels like ground teeth.

Lynette indulges me with extended silence. We rock until a parade of old memories surface and march onto the screen in my mind.

"Do you remember how bad Miss Anne's house smelled?" I close the bag and box.

"Well, she had all those cats." Lynette smiles, rocking.

"And her son…what was his name… used to wet his pants?" Snapping fingers by my temple, I try to recall.

"Tommy, Tommy Martin," she says and smacks the arm of her rocking chair, as if she could win a prize with quick response. Settling back in, "Isn't it ironic that Miss Anne painted the inside _and_ outside of her house yellow?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, eating the maraschino cherry from my glass.

"You know, yellow… the color of urine."

I howl, like I haven't laughed in years. The feeling reminds me of Truvy's line in _Steel Magnolias_, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."

After a million stories and countless cocktails, Lynette and I end the night.

"Are you going home?" she asks, knowing I live right next to Dad.

"No, I'm too tired. How about you?" I stumble and hop sideways to take off a shoe.

"If you're staying, I'm staying." She lives to the left of Dad's house.

Before I can offer her my old room, Lynette flops on the couch and closes her eyes. I cover her with a blanket and turn out the lights. Heading toward the hall, I opt to sleep in my father's bed. Maybe it'll be easier for him to visit my dreams in there.

Lying down I turn on my side and look toward his closet. Shoes, lined up like soldiers, wait to be selected. It occurs to me that my father will never wear them again because he's not a person anymore. And neither is Cal.

I quietly weep until sleep overtakes me.

Chapter Two - _Toxic Women _

I wake to hot breath on my face. Rico, my German shepherd, sits on the floor next to my father's bed, trying to rouse me. Pawing at the faded, block-quilt, he seems frustrated by my unconsciousness. Rico is an old K-9, given to me by officers of the Baltimore Police Station. It's time for my run. Even though he's too old to go with me, Rico takes routine very seriously. I am to run at 6:00 a.m., no matter the circumstance. He doesn't care about the weather, my mood, or in this case, if I'm hung over. It's my job to work out and his job to rouse me. Most days, Lynette joins me. I doubt she wants to be awakened today.

Tip-toeing into the living room, I see Lynette is a torrent of red hair and drool. Her arm dangles sideways off the couch. She never did drink much, a trait Lou— who runs a non-profit treatment center— appreciates. I, on the other hand, have been accused of having a hollow leg. Rico and I head out the back, he through the dog flap Dad made for him, and me the screen door. Pushing the gate between our yards further open, the metal screeches. _Dad was going to fix that. _

The kids are in our kitchen next door. I bought the place after my Cal died, to be near Dad and among the people where I grew up. None of the neighbors are perfect, but I've grown used to their demons— none of which include child abuse.

Combing fingers through shaggy hair, I try to look less run over. The back door opens before I reach the concrete stairs.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Kate wipes her hands on an apron she made in a sewing class she was "forced to take." It's covered in graffiti style letters that spell out the names of her favorite Blink 182 songs.

"Actually, the dog dragged me in." Rico barks, making my spine stiffen. "Why are you guys up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep. We're just getting some breakfast." She inherited the cooking bug from me. "Want some?" Kate holds the kitchen door.

"Rico's making me run. I'll just get some juice for now."

Kate reaches into the cabinet for a glass and pours me O.J. from a pitcher on the counter.

Mac's perched on a red barstool on the far side of the kitchen island, reading _The Catcher in the Rye_. A band of warm sun pours through the front bay window, courses through our open living room, and drapes him in light. Kate is on the inside of the island, her delicate figure framed by double ovens. Sunlight hits her hands, mixing biscuits. They have no idea how beautiful they are to me. I take a mental snapshot, hoping to capture the simple elegance of the moment, wanting to stop time and live here forever_._

Silence floats. They seem to know that I need to absorb them periodically. That's what happens to some people who lose loved ones; they soak up every minute of every day, thinking those closest to them could disappear just as abruptly.

But, I don't want them to be drenched in my abandonment.

"Where's Lou?" I ask them and drink my juice.

"He went home about fifteen minutes ago, said he was going to prepare a hangover breakfast for his 'lovely bride.' Something about raw eggs and tomato juice," Kate says.

"He'd better cover himself in plastic." I finish my glass of juice.

Mac laughs. "That's what I said." He lays down his book.

I hesitate. "Hey… I just wanted to apologize to you guys for my behavior last night. I think losing your grandpa made me a little crazy. You're going through enough without having to wonder whether or not I'm losing my mind."

"It's okay," Mac says. "You're wrestling with abandonment issues that were exacerbated by Mike's blatant disregard for your personal struggle."

Clearly Lynette talked to them. I know Mac's quoting her verbatim.

I kiss him on blond Medusa hair. "While that may be true, I shouldn't have embarrassed you guys in front of everybody. It was a very bad parenting moment."

"Very bad." Kate refills my glass. "I may never recover." She smiles.

"Very funny." I touch the rounded silk of Mac's prepubescent cheek—then head upstairs to change.

Tying on running shoes, I look out the window and drift off to one of my earliest memories… before my mother left. I must have been no more than seven years old. It was Valentine's Day. Feeling _called,_ I walked to the dormer window of my upstairs room, opened it and looked down. Mother was outside, dressed like Jackie Kennedy: cream-colored pillbox hat, a three-quarter length coat, and matching opera length gloves. She held a bucket of paint in her left hand and a wide sable brush in her right.

Mom was cautious at first; only dipping the tip of the brush and wiping all excess before she painted small swaths of crimson on our front stoop. Standing back she nodded to herself. She pushed the brush deeper into color and carefully eliminated every inch of grey concrete on our front step; creating a four-foot square of bright red.

A satisfied smile softened her face.

She followed up with a second coat, then stopped to smoke— Benson and Hedge's Menthol— and admire her work. I liked to watch her inhale. It seemed she was breathing in cures to whatever demons plagued her.

I thought she was finished working.

I was wrong.

She moved on to painting the four steps that fed into a cracked walkway dividing our front yard. Emaciated blades of grass stood on both sides of the walk, waiting for water to restore strength and color.

As I wished for rain, darkness tiptoed over the roof; shadow crept through our yard. The sky began to rumble as if hungry.

She looked up: "Not today! I have _work _to do." The sky thundered. She bellowed back, "You dare argue with me?" She raised her clenched fist. "I'll show you." Plunging her gloved hand into the paint bucket as far as it would go, she pulled out a handful of color. Then followed by dunking her right hand. She dropped to her knees and smeared red.

I couldn't take my eyes off her.

Drops of rain formed an army and charged forth. I looked up. The sky cracked and roared. A torrent of rain charged forth; a surprise attack.

"How dare you?!" Mom picked up the bucket of paint and poured it down the sidewalk. She got on her knees and spread red with her hands; an animal in the throws of a kill.

Dad's station wagon pulled up. He bolted out. "Delia!"

She didn't hear him. The sky was mocking her, pouring rain, growling.

"Delia!" He ran to her, tried to lift her from the walkway.

"You want to help me?" She screamed. "Then _help_ me."

My father looked up and saw me standing in the window. He tried to lie with his eyes, as if to say _everything's okay_. But it wasn't. I had wished for the rain. Mom was acting crazy because of me. Dad rolled up the sleeves of his uniform. Kneeling on the ground, he pulled color down the walkway.

The rain pooled and pushed streams of red into the grass. Gaunt blades stood stick-straight as paint, red as blood, slowly swallowed them. _Maybe if they held still enough, they wouldn't drown._ Blotches of grey concrete pushed through a sea of red. With every drop, grey took over.

My parents were losing the battle.

On her knees, Mom surrendered. She sat back and lifted her face to the rain. "You ruined Valentine's day!" She started to sob. Her body shuddered with every deep breath.

Dad went to her, held her in the rain, and rocked her like a child. Then, with an arm around her waist, he led her— dripping red— into the house.

I shake off the memory— don't know why death arouses other painful recall— and head for the door.

Running my usual four-mile trek, I go north on Bliss Lane to Hwy 648, turn right to Marley Neck, and head east. I like how the road goes over Marley Creek, winds through the trees, and passes the new mansions that were built on East Howard Road. I can't help but wonder what people do for a living to pay for houses that size, probably all doctors and lawyers.

I try to ignore the acid sloshing around my gut and focus on the runaway cases. Something seems suspicious. First of all, I have never heard of some of the kids. Normally they'd be in the system as victims of child abuse or neglect. Or they'd be diagnosed with behavioral or social problems. And the number of reports has increased too rapidly over the last two weeks. There's more, but my subconscious hasn't figured out the details. I think the old alcohol is making me fuzzy.

I see movement.

A dog is playing on one of the expansive lawns. A Doberman. Being a dog lover, I smile and watch him romp. Once he sees me, he crouches behind a tree. At first his posture is odd but not alarming; I keep running in his direction. The second I hit the corner of the lot, he bolts toward me, running as fast as he can, barking, teeth bared. _Shit! _An invisible fence stops him within two feet of me. The dog continues to lunge and push the boundary line so close, I hear the warning beep on his collar. He doesn't back off. Yellow eyes seem wild for the taste of blood.

Stunned, I look to the front door. A woman is standing on her circular brick driveway, talking to two men on bikes. They are dressed as missionaries or campaigners: black slacks, white, short-sleeved collared shirts, and black ties. The woman is petite, perfectly coiffured, and dressed in pink from head-to-toe.

Static fills my mind. The senses are so strong, I feel faint. Or maybe it's the old booze. Everyone moves like they're underwater. The woman does a slow turn toward the road. Her hair floats like a black cape as she looks in my direction. A clip of her flashes into my mind. She is standing in a white room— brightly lit— talking to two men. Her face is blurred.

The dog barks louder, forcing me out of my vision. He's on hind legs. I give a vocal and hand command for him to sit— as if he's trained. He drops forward, leans in even more, increases his barking.

"Hey!" I shout to the owner, more pissed than scared.

She stops her conversation, walks a few steps toward me. Distance masks her.

"Does this seem normal?" I yell and gesture toward her dog.

"I beg your pardon?" She, with an indescribable accent, calls her dog. He runs to her and sits down.

"Your dog is hunting people. Does that seem okay to you?" I yell.

"There's an electric fence. I'm within the confines of the law." She crosses her arms.

"Lady, I am the law," I embellish, "and if you don't do something about your dog, I will." I hate when I get frustrated like this, feel like a man overcompensating for a small penis.

She says something to one of the men, puts her dog inside, and shouts toward me, "Happy?"

"Thrilled." I pause, trying to gather a concise threat. "If anything ever happens to a kid out here, I'll make sure you're charged." My hands are on my hips. I feel like I'm clucking.  
She laughs. "You have no idea how ironic you are." Turning, she touches one man's hand, and goes inside. The men ride toward the next house.

_Ironic? _I jog away, too flummoxed for words. _Maybe she picked the wrong expression. _

"How was the run?" Kate asks, loading her backpack.

I take in her outfit: yellow skinny jeans, red Keds, two shirts under a flannel, black-framed glasses, and a saggy purple stocking cap that precariously clings to the Yamaka section of her hair. My little artist.

Mac is ready for school and looking at the TV with a gaming controller in his hand. I wonder why they've decided to attend classes despite my offer to skip school.

I grab a piece of bacon. "There was a man in his wife's robe getting the morning paper, a grandma teaching her grandkids to hula-hoop, and a demon dog who wanted to eat me for breakfast."

"So, the usual?" Kate glances at an incoming text message on her phone.

"Pretty much. Any more contact with Grandpa Jack?" I wipe sweat from my face with the bottom of my blue shirt.

"Mac's teaching him Xbox." She texts someone back.

"What? How?"

"Grandpa saw him playing and said he wanted to learn." She looks up from her phone. "I told Mac to teach him just like he would any other kid."

I lean back and see Mac explaining all the buttons on the controller with blind faith that his grandfather is in the room. He follows Kate like that, will do anything she asks.

"Are you going to the station today?" She's texting again. I'm convinced that this generation of kids will have the bragging rights to the most dexterous thumbs.

"Yeah. I feel like I should. Maybe it'll take my mind off things." I take another piece of bacon, thinking nothing of adding back the fat I just worked off.

"I know what you mean." She locks her phone with the zig-zag of her finger. "That's why we're going to school."

"Lynette would accuse us of avoiding our feelings." I kiss her on the cheek and go toward the back door.

"Yuck, Mom." She wipes my sweat from her face onto a dishrag. "Maybe she's right, but it's better than crying all day."

I smile and step into the sun. "I'm going to go check on her."

"Maybe you should take some Advil." Kate tosses a small bottle to me. "She's going to be a train wreck."

Walking into Dad's yard, I bound up the back stairs and open the screen door. Rico and I walk to the couch. Lynette is lying on her back, mouth open, snoring. We stand over her thinking our presence will wake her— nothing. Rico gives her a nudge with his snout— nothing. I clear my throat— nothing.

"Time to rise and shine, Cupcake," I say in a sing-song voice.

She pushes her hair out of her face, opens an eye, and wipes her mouth with a sleeve. "What time is it?" She clears her throat.

I look at my Timex. "7:13."

"Jesus! I have a client at 8:00." She springs off the couch, stumbles sideways. "Holy Hell. How much did I drink?"

"Too much for you, and not as much as me." I throw a tennis ball for Rico.

"Bring me coffee later?" Tugging her clothes straight, she grabs her purse.

"Sure." I hand her the bottle. "Take three." Rico returns with a slobber-drenched ball.

Lynette goes out the back, opens the gate to her yard, and stumbles inside.

I hear Lou say, "Look what I made for you, Honey."

Lynette makes a retching sound. She won't throw up, though. Never has and never will.

Chapter Three - _High's _

High's Convenience Store is just up the road. Rico and I stop by there every morning for a treat before work. DeWayne, a homeless man, is slumped in front of the store— as he is most mornings. He has skin the color and texture of raisins, unkempt dreadlocks, and is missing his top four teeth. I'd guess him to be in his late forties, though he looks more weathered.

"Good Morning, Sunshine." I lean down and give him a little shake.

He sits up and yawns. "I heard about your daddy. I'm awful sorry."

I nod. "You know, you're welcome over at Lou's Place when you're ready to get clean."

"I'll get by there one of these days." He scratches in places that make me avert my eyes.

I notice a curtain move in a window above the store. They say a woman lives up there, although I've never seen her. Even the owner of the store doesn't know what she looks like. Her disability checks are automatically deposited, and she transfers money to his account for rent. The only person that goes in or out, he says, is a day nurse. Maybe a perky girl in her early twenties, who comes with bags of groceries. I'm sure she has a hard time coming to this part of town.

The curtain drops. "I'll be right back with our breakfast," I say.

Vang, the owner, is from Laos. He greets me with a bow. "Morning, Miss Emma."

"Is the coffee fresh? I have a friend who needs reviving," I say.

"Use pot on right. Other one for bad customer." He smiles a mouthful of crooked, yellow teeth. Dark eyes twinkle.

I pour three cups, black, load bags with pastries, and grab a Slim Jim. A headline in the Baltimore Sun grabs my attention:_ Runaways on the Rise. _

I grab a paper off the top of the stack and fold it under my arm.

At the register I pull out the floral billfold Cal gave me before he died. I told him wallets made me feel like a man with a butt goiter, but the law requires that I carry identification "on my body." I only keep my license, a low-limit credit card, my favorite picture of him and the kids, and less than twenty dollars in it. Putting my wallet on the counter, I pay Vang and put the change in my back pocket.

Outside, I give DeWayne a cinnamon roll and one of the coffees. We wish each other "good day," and I head toward my beige Taurus. Rico waits patiently in the passenger's seat. After setting down the drinks and pastries, I pull the Slim Jim out of my pocket. Rico wags his tail as I peel off the wrapper. He has learned to "sing" for his treat and wastes no time before beginning his low yowl. I rub his ears and give him what he's been singing for. The Slim Jim disappears within seconds.

I glance through the newspaper article. There are quotes from Chief Lewis: "We're making this a top priority," "The children of this community are of the utmost importance," "We welcome any, and all, input from the good people of Baltimore."

I'm glad to see that he's enlisted the help of the press. That's what Dad would have done. I fold the paper, tuck it between the front seats, and head toward Lynette's office off of Ritchie Highway.

The space she leases is on the first floor of a five-story building. She has a small waiting room, two offices, a mini kitchen and a storage room. Opening her main door, I can see that she's in the left room with her head down on her desk. It's 8:10.

"I come bearing sugar and caffeine." I stand in the waiting room just in case a patient is on the couch, out of sight. If so, they will not get their money's worth from Lynette today.

"Oh my God." She raises her head. "Not a minute too soon."

"Where's your client?"

"He cancelled. I'm free until 9:00."

"Bummer. You could have drooled for another whole hour." I walk into her office, give her coffee and a cheese Danish, and sit on the edge of her desk.

"My brain is throbbing." Ivory fingers snake through red waves as she holds her head. Tossing her hair into a lose bun, she secures it with a pencil from her drawer, then takes a bite of the danish. "I'll detox tomorrow."

"Your husband could help you with that." I lean against her second-hand desk. She could afford teak but prefers "sensible purchases."

"He says I only qualify for treatment three times a year: Christmas, New Years, and St. Patrick's Day."

"And whenever someone dies." We both go silent. Lynette squeezes my hand. I see movement in the parking lot. "Oh my God… he's here."

"Who's here?" She perks up.

"The hot lawyer from down the hall." I stand on tippy-toes to get a better look.

Lynette stands to see where I'm looking. "I swear if I weren't crazy about Lou I'd..." She stops herself. "You ought to get back out there, Em. It's been seven years."

"I know exactly how long it's been. I'm the forty-year-old, re-born virgin."

"You're only thirty-six." She breaks a bite-sized piece off the Danish.

"Which is nearly forty. This morning… there were moths flying out of my vagina."

Lynette almost smiles.

We both stare out the window, grateful for the distraction.

"My God he's spectacular." I try to imagine him naked.

"Just look at his physique." Lynette gasps, puts a hand over her heart.

"I know… I've already undressed him."

"Of course you have. Your mind's always in the gutter." Grimacing, Lynette massages her temple.

"Do you think he's married?" I ask.

"He doesn't wear a wedding ring… I've looked." Lynette folds her arms and holds her coffee cup to her chest.

"You shameless hussy. One more ogle and I'm telling Lou."

We watch as he says goodbye to the people he was chatting with in the parking lot. They look like clients: a strapping, older man with silver hair, and a much younger woman with a tidy figure and black chignon. _Trophy wife, _I think.

Static fills my mind. My body hums. They become liquid movement. A scene pops up, full screen: The woman is posing a model that faces away; she arranges the young woman's long, blond hair. Professional lighting illuminates the space. She takes several pictures, and then tosses the camera down. She waves a back-handed goodbye, and walks away slowly. I'm lost in the future. From the outside, I must look like I'm having an absence seizure.

"Let's go to the ladies room." Lynette pushes me out of my vision.

"What? I don't have to…"

"His office is across the hall from there." She whispers as if he could hear us. "Let's move."

"Just a second. I look like hell." I pinch my cheeks and grab lipstick out of her purse.

"True love will see through the horror of…this." She makes a circle gesture around my face.

"Thanks for _that_ vote of confidence." I apply lipstick, which— I will discover later— makes my mouth look like a toddler's coloring book.

"Enough talk. Let's move." She pushes me toward the hall and times our "accidental encounter" perfectly.

Face-to-face with this stranger, I feel an odd connection — like we've known each other before. Everything in me expands, fills with breath. I can almost taste our memories. He fits so easily with me; I want to absorb him. I felt the same way when I met my husband and looked at my kids for the first time— they were a part of me that I didn't know I was missing.

"Joe, this is my Sister…ish." Lynette seems surprised by her own word choice.

He locks eyes with me, extends his hand. "Sister…ish? That's a term I haven't heard before." I can feel his heartbeat in my hand. My palm wants to mate with his. "Joe Montgomery. Nice to… meet you," he says with a wry smile.

"We're the female version of 'brothers-from-another-mother'." Lynette looks around as if to find the person filling her mouth with words she'd never choose.

I wonder if it's last night's alcohol speaking.

Joe and I look at each other, trying to handle this odd declaration.

"I'm Emma, Emma James. We grew up next door to one another. Lynette has always felt like a big sister to me." I look to her. She's nodding. "She timed this accidental meeting because she thinks you're gorgeous and just wanted to get a closer look." I wink at Lynette.

Joe laughs, then realizes he's still holding my hand. He lets go and shakes his head as if to apologize for overstepping a social boundary.

Lynette— visibly mortified by my statement— hides her face in her hands.

Silence fills the hall.

"Well, now that we all feel painfully awkward, I hereby call this introduction to an end." Joe extends his hand again. "It's great to be here. In this hallway. With you. " He nearly blushes. "Wow… that sounded really stupid."

"No. No. I feel the same..." Shocked by his disclosure, I look to Lynette to see if she heard him. She is trying to bury her head in the wall.

"I'm sure we'll be together…" He laughs. "I mean, _see_ each other again." His eyes meet mine. Something seems to lock in place for us: a shared knowing that fate has played a role in our meeting today.

His eyes are so dark I can't discern the pupil from nearly black irises. I want to run my hands through his chestnut waves. Kiss his full mouth. My mind starts to loosen his tie, unbutton his shirt.

"Soon, I hope." He tips his head as if wearing a hat.

I feel caught. "Yes. I hope so."

He walks down the hall to his office. Lynette and I look at his ass.

"Did you have to tell him that that _I_ think he's gorgeous?" Lynette says.

"No. But it was _so_ worth seeing your reaction." I loop my arm into hers.

She puts her hand to her mouth. "I feel like I'm going to be sick."

I ignore her physical mortification, make a real confession. "He feels like home to me."

She pauses, knowing I'm rarely vulnerable. "Then it was worth playing the fool."

We take a real breath for the first time since running from her office.

38

38


	2. Chapter 2- SEVEN WAKINGS

Chapter Four - _Forget-Me-Not_

After leaving Lynette's office, I notice I'm low on gas and stop at a Citco near the police station. Stepping out of my Taurus, I see two more missionary men and assume there's a "back-to-school" religious effort. One man strikes a remarkable resemblance to a young Donny Osmond, the other has a slight build, glasses, and mousy brown hair. On bikes at the front of the store, they're pouring bottles of water into Camelbacks. Both are wearing the typical "uniform," plus helmets, and have baskets mounted to the front of their bikes, which hold folders and cameras. The folders probably have handouts for the people in the neighborhoods they will comb in search of an elusive convert. But the cameras seem odd.

Their baskets remind me of a bicycle that my father still has in his garage. It's a 1964 Schwinn Cycle Truck— black with white-wall tires, and a cargo bin on the front. When I was little, he steadied his bike while I climbed up and sat in the metal basket, dangling skinny legs beside the smaller front tire. Dad rode as fast as he could through the neighborhood, across the ravine, swooping up and down hills. It was a rollercoaster for two. I'd stretch my arms out wide, tilt my head to the sky, and feel like I _was_ the wind. Flying in dreams felt exactly the same as flying with my dad.

A squad car pulls up to the pump behind me. It's Mike Dupree.

I wince… feel stupid about last night.

He gets out, walks to me, and offers his hand in peace. "I wanna apologize about last night. I was outta line with a couple of things I said."

I'm surprised by his civility; wonder who coached him. "Me too." I shake his hand. "Apparently I have a hairpin trigger when it comes to family."

Mike takes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, puts it behind his ear. "I guess we have _that_ in common." He plants his feet. "So… what are you doin' on this side of town?"

I don't want to tell him that I'm headed to the station. He's already made it clear that he thinks my contribution is unsound. Pointing to the pump I say, "Filling up." I reach for my wallet, find it's not there. "Crap. I must have left my money at High's. Can you cover me?"

Mike crosses his arms. "First you attack me and now you're a damsel in distress?" He sucks his incisor. "Maybe you're mistakin' bein' psychic, with bein' bi-polar." He laughs at himself.

"Jesus! Right when I let my guard down, you go back on the attack." I glance at the men on bikes, then back to him. "It's like you were raised by wolves."

He crosses his arms. "My mother was a saint. May she rest in peace."

I notice that he doesn't say anything about his father. "I'm going to see if the manager can spot me until after the briefing." _Damn. _

"You goin' to the briefin'?" The unlit cigarette dangles between his lips.

"The Chief asked me to be there." My statement comes out more like a question.

"Bullshit. There are already too many eyes on this. We oughta be focusin' on real crime."

"Maybe this _is _real crime." I have no idea why I just said that, but I walk away with conviction. Mike brings out an immaturity in me that I haven't felt since the playground.

Inside I give the manager all of my contact information and show her my CPS badge. I look out and see Mike talking to the religious men while his tank fills. I wonder if they're discussing the bible or rules of the road. Either way, I'm sure Mike will have something to say about it.

After my tank is full I holler to Mike, "I'll see you at the station." He looks at me like an unwanted houseguest. I want to flip him the bird, but force myself to smile and lower myself into the driver's seat. As I drive away, I notice Mike reading through one of their folders. I can't imagine him as a convert, but stranger things have happened.

Rico and I enter the police station through the side door and head toward a meeting room on the lower level. Several officers greet me and offer condolences. Their faces and hugs are a blur.

Kim throws me a little wave and then crouches to pet Rico. Mike appears in the hall, whispers something in Kim's ear, and then walks to me.

"Tell me again why CPS wants you here?" He heads down the hall toward a coffee machine. I don't realize that he's leading me away from the other officers for a response.

I follow him. "The number of recent runaway cases is shocking. It seems a little suspect."

He turns around. "Suspect? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that kids don't run away en masse. Something else is going on here."

He glances down the hall, then at me. "You oughta keep that thought to yourself."

I look at him sideways. "Is that a threat?"

He holds up his hands, as if to surrender. "It's a suggestion. A strong suggestion." He pulls quarters out of his pocket.

"Lucky for me, I don't take orders from you." And there I go again acting infantile.

Something changes in his eyes. "If you were smart, you would." He drops coins into the coffee machine, presses a button for a cup of black, and waits. Nothing happens. "Come on!" He pokes the button several times. Nothing. He rattles the coin return. Nothing. Officers descend from upstairs and glance over at us. Mikes frustration takes on new life; he pounds the button with the side of his fist, kicks at the coin return.

I back away slowly. By the time I reach the end of the hall, he has grabbed the top of the machine and is trying to shake out the contents. A few officers watch him and laugh. The general consensus seems to be that Mike is a brainless brute.

Disarmed by his outburst, I head back to the meeting room. I can't get a handle on him. Part of me is curious and another part cautious.

Chief Lewis enters and commands the K-9 officers to put their dogs in kennels and everyone else to take their seats. I bring Rico to his old cage and watch as Mike sits in the front row of plastic chairs. Kim pours a cup of coffee from the Chiefs pot, hands it to Mike, then sits at a small desk at the front of the room facing the officers. She looks up shyly.

I have no idea what she sees in him. I sit in the back of the room— at the farthest point from Mike.

After everyone takes their seats Chief Lewis begins: "Settle down. We have lot to cover today." His baritone voice commands attention from a pedestal at the front. Eclipsing six feet by two inches— and well over 200 lbs— he is impossible to ignore. "As usual, we'll start with violent offenses, then cover property and public-order crimes— including the runaway cases. Officers, you are free to leave once you're given your assignment."

I tune out as Chief Lewis covers murder, assault, burglary, arson, and vandalism. It seems odd that life goes on without Cal and my father in it. Especially police life. Even after Dad retired, he came into the station for weekly briefings to, "Keep my finger on the pulse of the city." He stood at the back of the room— believing that civilians didn't deserve a chair— even though the Chief reserved one for him every Monday, up until Dad was hospitalized. Then Chief Lewis brought a chair to his hospice room, to remind him that he would always be a part of the force.

The room nearly empties as officers take their assigned cases and head out. Only the Chief, Kim, Mike, two seasoned officers, and three new recruits remain for the last cases— the runaways.

Still behind the podium, Chief Lewis addresses the last of us: "Right now there are over thirty kids on the books, listed as runaways. That's up 20% over this time last year." He removes photos and profiles from a manila envelope, and hands the contents of the packet to Kim. As she tapes pictures of the kids to a blackboard, she adds their names to the photos, and last recorded address to a map.

This is the first time I've seen some of these kids. At CPS I was just given copies of the police reports. My mind starts shifting the pictures around, putting them together into smaller groups: in the CPS system for years, have police records, and never seen them before.

"Our latest report came in this morning— one Miss Anna Tyler, from Linthicum. Her parents said that she didn't come home last night after an argument with her mother. Make sure to keep an eye out for her as you try to track down the others."

Something about her seems familiar. She looks like a girl from Kate's video production club; and this girl has the same last name. I get out my phone and send a text to Kate: _Do you know Anna Tyler? Blond hair, blue eyes, Icelandic looking. _She'll know what I mean by this; she loves Bjork. 

"Look for these kids on the street. Start with the usual informants and users, then work your way up to dealers. They are probably supplying some of these kids. We need to interview the families. Find out why they think their kids left, and where they think they could have gone." He checks his watch, makes a note on a yellow pad.

Kim hands out packets that contain each child's picture and profile.

I get a text back from Kate: _Yeah. She__'__s Emily__'__s little sister. Why? _

I scan Anna's profile and raise my hand.

Chief Lewis points to me. "You have something to add?"

"Sir, what if some of these kids aren't runaways?" I look at specific photos on the blackboard.

He turns toward the pictures; seems to consider an alternate scenario. "They were reported that way. Right?" He checks with Kim, who nods.

Mindlessly I stand up. "Anna's so young. I know her family; this would never happen. I can speak with her parents. Maybe there's a connection between her and some of the other recent…"

The Chief's phone rings. "This'll just take a minute." He plugs his left ear, listens to the phone with his right, paces.

Mike looks back at me, clenches his jaw.

Kim gets busy with paperwork while she's on the phone. The officers start to speak amongst themselves. A recruit gets up from a middle row and comes over to me. He offers his hand.

"Archer Carter." He's young and stunning: tall, with milk chocolate skin and kind eyes. "I've heard a lot about you." He flashes a broad white smile, reveals dimples. His smile transforms him from gorgeous to "oh-my-god!"

I want to give him Kate's hand in marriage. "That could be really good, or really bad, depending on who you talk to." I gesture for him to take the seat next to me.

"Anyone who takes care of kids is alright in my book." He sits and looks up at the pictures.

"What do you see up there?" I ask.

"It's more like what I don't see." He rubs his chin.

"What do you mean?"

"There's no empty stare in some of them. If you were a kid who didn't feel safe at home you'd be able to fake a smile, but not the light in your eyes."

"Like who?"

He pulls out the contents of his packet. "The girl you mentioned and…." He flips through pictures. "This kid… and look at this one. She looks like a baby."

"Maybe she's older than she looks. My son's thirteen, but he looks eleven."

"Check this out, though." He points at her shirt. "No angry kid would wear something with a cartoon on it."

Sharp guy. I look at several other photos. "Yeah. And I'd know something about these kids if their lives were a wreck."

"Could their families just be better at hiding abuse?"

"Maybe. I have a friend who can do a psychological assessment on the parents of the runaways that seem a-typical. See if there's any hidden dysfunction. Her name's Lynette. Lynette McCollum-Hayes. Chief Lewis has referred people to her before. I think he'd be open to having her consult."

Chief Lewis hangs up. "I've been called out. In addition to the packets, Kim will have to give you your individual assignments. Older officers, work with a new recruit. Mike, bring your K-9 to the streets. We need to shake it up out there. Threaten the dealers with a bust, maybe that'll get them talking about these kids. Archer, why don't you ride with Emma? Keep her in check. Sometimes her 'imagination' can run a little wild. Everyone… we'll debrief tomorrow morning."

I look to Archer. "You _do_ realize that you've just been appointed as my babysitter."

He laughs. "I don't think I'm qualified to stop you from getting into trouble."

We gather our things and head to get Rico. Walking back down the hall, we run into Mike and Kim.

She smiles demurely, then flashes a quick glance up at Mike. "I guess I should get back to work?" She hesitates, doesn't seem to want to leave him. He nods and Kim sulks away.

Mike directs his attention to me. "Headed back to High's?" He puts a leash on his dog and rubs her ears. "I'm sure CPS would consider that a waste of company time."

He gets under my skin faster than a needle. "If you had helped me out at the gas station, I wouldn't have to go back. But since you're such a prick..."

Archer stifles a laugh; covers it by coughing.

Mike glances at him. "You takin' the kid?"

"Archer. Archer Carter." He offers his hand to Mike, who ignores him.

I push past Mike. "Chief's orders."

Mike grabs my arm, and leans in close. "You shoulda kept your mouth shut in there."

I pull away from him. "I don't take orders from you, remember?"

"I guess you don't take suggestions either. That was a mistake. A big mistake."

I don't know how to respond, so I flip him the bird and walk away.

Archer catches up, fights a smile. "Mike kind of gets to you, huh?"

I wonder where he's seen me around Mike before. Then it hits me…"Tell me you weren't at my father's house last night."

He smiles. "I'd like to, but my Momma didn't raise no liar."

I lead Rico to the back seat of Archer's squad car. Once we're in, I ask Archer about his assignment. He is to interview the families of some of the older runaways. As we drive, I look at all the profiles and move the reports of the kids that were already in the CPS system to the bottom. Then, I eliminate the files of kids with a police record or history of drug use. I study the remaining files. "Do _you_ think that some of these kids could have been abducted?"

Archer looks to me. "You mean like, kidnapped?"

"Yeah. Like a ring. "

Archer pulls into High's parking lot. "I think the Chief was right… you _do_ have an active imagination."

"It just feels like there's a darkness around this." I open the car door. "I'll be right back."

As I get out to retrieve my wallet, Archer steps out to let Rico relieve himself. DeWayne is asleep by the dumpster. I notice the drape in the window move again. Inside the store Vang greets me with another bow and smile. "I have wallet, Miss Emma. Keep safe." He bends down and retrieves my billfold from a box designed to look like a book. "You look. I take nothing."

"I don't have to check, Vang. I trust you." I turn toward the door and slip my wallet into my back pocket.

Just outside his store I hear a bang. I'm blown backward.

The moments that follow play out in slow motion. Archer's weapon is drawn. Stumbling, I hear more pops. I grab my chest, feel punched. _What the hell? _A river of red floods my hands. My insides feel doused in acid. A woman shrieks. DeWayne wakes up. Archer runs toward me; eyes wide. Rico gallops with him; tongue dangling. Tires screech. I drop to my knees, wonder why I can't control my legs. I fall sideways; see blue sky, and big puffy white clouds. _What did Dad call those?_

Archer kneels down, takes off his uniform shirt and presses it on my chest. "Stay with me. Stay with me. For God's sake, stay with me." He wipes a hand on his white t-shirt, leaves red smears, then fumbles for his walkie-talkie. He talks so fast; I can't understand him.

Rico licks my face.

"Miss Emma?" DeWayne stumbles toward me.

I wonder what all the commotion is about.

Everything turns grey. I struggle to breathe, can't keep my eyes open. Soon I hear the distant cry of an ambulance. My mind starts falling down a black hole. I need a nap. That's all… just a little bit of sleep. I am swallowed by black.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Five -_ Limbo_

Surrounded by stars, I float. A warm, dark ocean with pinholes of light carries me. I wonder if I'm one of the bad guys from my childhood fantasy, headed toward a black hole. Wonder if I'm dreaming. I hear voices. Someone presses on my chest. He counts: "1-2-3," then presses again. I try to remember the bra I put on this morning.

A mask covers my face, pushes air into my lungs. I feel heavy. Too heavy. I can't lift anything. Can't talk. Metal screeches, then bangs. _Is that my side gate?_ Everything jostles. I'm a football, bouncing down the field.

Someone takes my hand. "Stay with us Emma. Stay for your kids." It's Archer.

I don't know what he's talking about. I would never leave my kids. Never.

My hearing is magnified: a metal door shuts, an engine turns over, a beeping noise dances without rhythm in the background.

"You think she's gonna be okay?" Archer's voice cracks.

A different man answers. "We're doing the best we can."

My chest twists. It feels like someone is standing on my insides with ice skates. _This thinking isn__'__t right._ I fall into a memory: Dad and I were at Linthicum Park. The pond was frozen. We were teaching Kate and Mac to play Crack-the-Whip with other kids from the neighborhood.

"Do you remember when Mac got the wind knocked out of him? You thought he was a goner." Dad's laugh is close. He's here with me. _Where__'__s here?_

I want to look around for him, but I'm only grey breath and space.

The beeping in the background goes from broken to solid. I float outside the constraints of my body; I'm weightless, free.

"Get the paddles!"

Scissors cut fabric. Gel squirts from a tube. Lightening cracks through my chest. I'm pulled back into the weight of me.

"We're losing her." He yells. "Pick up the pace."

I notice the siren for the first time, then black out.

Bright lights wake me. Everything is blurry. A man in thick glasses and a surgical mask hovers over me. His scrubs are mint green. The color offends me; it looks sick.

"Emma, I'm Dr. Thomas. You're in the hospital. You've been shot." He puts his hand on my shoulder.

_Shot? _

My eyes search the room for answers. I can't imagine who'd want me dead. Must have been random. I gasp for air; it feels like my lungs are filled with holes. The room fades.

Back in the sea of stars, gravity pulls me through the dark. Voices whisper: "I can't get a pulse," "Let's call the time," "Who's her closest relative?" Hushed tones echo in the space around me, but I don't understand. Everything is jumbled.

_Who are they talking about?_

I'm suddenly distracted by an aroma. It's Mexican food.

My mind sees a street in Baltimore. A neon sign flashes "La Cucaracha" in the distance. Kate checks her phone, paces under a black and white stripped umbrella in the rain. Mac is jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk. Lynette says, "Where_ is _she?"

_Something is really wrong. _

In tickertape moments, I see Archer— the new recruit— knocking on Lynette's front door. She's still dressed as she was this morning: green shirt, black slacks, tousled red waves pulled back into a loose bun, the pencil at its core. Archer says something. Lynette drops to her knees and vomits in the grass.

Suddenly people are gathered in a colorless room. Pictures of my life hang on the wall. Everyone is struck silent. Even the pastor can't speak. He looks down at the black box, the size of a half-gallon of ice cream, and shakes his head. Kate and Mac are in the front row, next to Lynette and Lou. They are varied states of disbelief.

A new scene: Kate and Lynette are sitting on my bed, side-by-side. Lynette puts her hand on Kate's back, tucks her hair behind an ear.

"Mom hasn't crossed over," Kate says abruptly.

"I know how hard this is." Lynette takes Kate's hand into hers.

"No… it's not 'denial,' or whatever you call it." Kate gets up, paces.

"I'm not sure I understand." Lynette walks to her.

"You know… the gifts our family has..."

Lynette nods.

"If Mom had crossed over I'd know it. She'd be talking to me."

"Maybe it's like this situation with your dad."

She's referring to the one conversation Kate had with her father after he passed. He told her that he would always look out for her. But he thought it would be harder for her to understand, as a child, if he spoke to her. And Mac might feel left out. He'd make contact later… when the time was right— for both kids.

"No. Mom said she would never leave us that way. In life and in death, she promised to be there. Especially since… you know… since her mom left her."

I finally get it.

I'm dead. _I__'__m dead?_

An invitation extends to me through the dark. I don't want to go. A woman's voice, sweet and rich, begins to hum. It is familiar. She sings a child's song: "You Are My Sunshine." The last line punch's my psyche… "Please don't take my sunshine away." The words curl and float.

It is my mother's voice.

"No!" I scream. "I will not leave my children, like you left me!" I'm so angry, so scared, I think I'll break into nothingness.

She continues to hum, seemingly unmoved by my protest.

"_You_ were a coward!" My anger surprises even me. "No… no… you were a bitch!" I'm shaking, in complete denial about being dead.

Silence.

"You never even tried to contact me, or Dad, or my kids. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?" I feel like my head could pop off. "You threw us away."

Silence.

"My kids will never feel that… disposable, forgotten." I pace, knead my hands.

Silence.

"But you don't get that. You couldn't even commit to seven years as a mother. I'm committed forever. Eternity!"

She hums softly.

"Show yourself! Talk to me." I strangle the air, feel like a complete idiot. "Say something!" I shout.

Silence.

"It figures I would get nothing from you in death." I pace without direction, a mouse caught in a maze. "Why are _you_ here? Where's Dad… or Cal?"

Silence.

"This is bullshit!" I scream into the night. "Bullshit!"

Silence.

"Get me back to my kids!" I clench my jaw. "You're a Goddamned waste of a soul."

The stars turn into doves and flap into a white-blue sky. I am nowhere. I am nothing. Just a voice, alone in space. Terrified, I think I might disappear.

I take a deep breath; adjust my attitude.

"Listen, I may not have handled that well." I try to appear sane. "It's just that my kids haven't had a father, and they just lost their grandfather. You were never there. I can't imagine what will happen to them if they lose me too."

The sky turns slowly into dawn.

I'm losing my mind, like Tom Hanks in _Castaway._ The only thing missing is the volleyball. I begin to negotiate. "What if you sent me back somehow, just to figure out what happened… bring some closure for the kids?"

The silence grows deeper. My ears buzz.

"Can't you do that? Pull a miracle out of your pocket." I laugh a crazy, little laugh.

I hear Mother's voice. "Hush little baby, don't say a word."

"Haven't you noticed that I'm not a child anymore?" Something occurs to me. "I could do something for the 'greater good' while I'm there. You know… maybe find the missing kids."

The sky turns orange. She continues to hum.

I'm frantic. I start to think about more children being taken. _There__'__s no way I can stay here. _"I'll do anything. Be anyone. I just need to go back."

She finally speaks: "You don't even know those missing kids."

"I'm _built_ to protect children." I throw begging hands up in frustration. "But you couldn't understand that."

There is a beat of silence. "You would reject Nirvana for a few days on earth?"

I'm caught off guard by her word selection. She was a bible thumping Christian. Why wouldn't she say Heaven?

"I could never rest knowing that the people who need me the most are in a living hell."

There's a pause. I feel her move toward me, as if to inspect my intention. "Are you willing to sacrifice anything?"

She's creepier than I remember. "I'm not willing to make a pact with the devil, if that's what you're asking."

I feel her smile. Cryptically she says, "You'll get seven wakings."

"I don't know what that means."

"You will… soon enough."

The sky turns deep red. A flash slices through my brain, brings me to my knees.

"Please," I beg. I need to go back. I begin to sob. "I am nothing without my children."

_I am nothing. _


End file.
